Rescue
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Sherlock Holmes is rescued once more from near death and comes to terms with the one who always mattered. [Rated T for violence and gore]


_**A/N: **I was slowly carving out more paragraphs for 'The Admirer' when this little scene suddenly appeared in my head. I tried to ignore it because I'm so terribly behind on The Admirer. However, it wouldn't leave my mind. Hence. x_

**_Rated T for violence and gore(?)_**

* * *

**Rescue**

The gun was heavy, cold but not unfamiliar. The fingers that held it were steady, betraying nothing but confidence in wielding the weapon. The footsteps were calm, quiet and stealthier than the night itself.

"Which room was it?" the voice was a bare whisper. "Ah. That one."

The door was ajar, and already, his voice could be heard inside. How foolish of him to have left it ajar. How cocky. The stealthy footsteps continued, snaking the body that controlled them between the door and its frame. There was a small smirk on those slim lips - it _did_ pay to be a little smaller in stature.

When she saw him, he was bound to a chair. His hair was matted, with blood and sweat dripping from his forehead. Their enemy stood in front of him, mockery in his voice, cockiness in the way he stood and the way he tapped the knife in his hand carelessly against his thigh. For a moment, he nearly gave the game away, for his eyes had widened momentarily when it met hers.

_Shh_. She gestured swiftly, pressing her index finger to her lips. A playful smile slowly appeared on her lips.

The enemy, with his sickening suit and hair flattened with pomade continued his dramatic tirade to the weary detective. Quickly, in order not to give her presence away, the detective lowered his head, feigning defeat. It made their enemy laugh. He laughed loudly, guffawing until the ceiling above them shook. At his final chuckle, he spun casually around.

_Now_. She thought. She lifted the gun and pointed it perfectly in his face. The cool tip of the gun, kissing his forehead like an eager mouth.

"No! Moll—"

_Bang_.

The trigger depressed easily under her experienced fingers. A spot of mahogany appeared on his forehead, before he crumpled to the ground.

_Bang. _

_Bang. _

_Bang. _

She shot him three more times.

_I won't let you come back another time, _she thought.

Her eyes followed the little crimson rivers that grew from the shattered skull at her feet. Stepping over the corpse, she knelt in front of the detective, freeing his hands and his torso from the chair.

"Molly…" he uttered. His voice was hoarse, weary but relieved.  
"Sherlock," she whispered, letting his blood-stained face fall onto her shoulder as he breathed heavily.

Her soft hands rested on the back of his head as she held him and he collapsed into her.

"So, bad day was it?" she said quietly, chucking softly.

He laughed, and then sobbed in between laughs as he took in her words. With the blood and bones of their enemy at their feet, they held each other. Molly kissed his eyebrow as he clutched onto her, not wanting her to be far from him. She let him hold her like that until his frantic breathing ebbed and the panic gradually left him. She smiled in relief when she felt his pulse finally calm down against her skin.

"Molly…"  
"Hmm?"  
"Would you like to…"  
"Solve crimes?" she interrupted.

He lifted his head and looked at her, puzzled at her words. When she saw his expression, she laughed and reached for him once more, kissing him swiftly on his lips.

"I guess I am rather hungry," she said, smirking at him.  
"I'm surprised you are," he said, tilting his head in the direction of Moriarty's limp body in a pool of his own blood.  
"I've seen much worse," she said, shrugging, "You forget, Sherlock Holmes, that I do post-mortems."  
"Indeed you do," he replied, the corners of his mouth lifting.  
"Besides," she said, getting up and turning to leave, "I'd kill to go to dinner with the great Sherlock Holmes."

Her words made him laugh. Even though it made his bruised ribs ache, he laughed.

"And I suppose you have." he said with a smirk.

She turned back and lowered her head to kiss him once more. His bruised and cut lips did not mind in the least. Every sting was worth the contact of her mouth against his. As Mycroft's specialist team arrived moments later, swarming the place, the pair continued to kiss, not caring in the least about the people that surrounded them, nor the corpse at their feet. Why should they have cared?

She had found him.

And he had found her.

**END**


End file.
